


Vacation

by LegendaryBard



Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Canon Divergent, M/M, a possible redemption arc even tho locus isn't technically a big bad guy yet, hopefully light & fluffy content
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-17
Updated: 2017-05-23
Packaged: 2018-11-01 21:57:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,382
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10930830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LegendaryBard/pseuds/LegendaryBard
Summary: Upon taking a head count at Crash Site Bravo, it's evident that there are a few people missing; Control sends Locus to find them, and what he finds is decidedly... Strange.





	1. The Setup

The thunderous crash  _ hadn’t  _ been part of the plan. The ship was supposed to be ripped from orbit, yes, but not so viciously that it broke in half and killed the entire crew. Locus had been told it wasn’t the fault of the pirates operating the half functional temple- it was user error, as if the ship had been pulled in five different directions at once. 

He and Felix quietly watch survivors filter out of the ship- the first was a pair. Agent Washington and one adorned in royal blue- Caboose, he thought?- both of them leaning on the other for support. Washington was limping, the big blue one’s shoulders were slumped and his head sagged low. 

Washington lays Caboose against a tree. He removes the man’s helmet, snaps his fingers in his face. There are some words exchanged that Locus can’t hear. Washington squeezes Caboose’s shoulder, bobs his head, and limps off back into the ship. Interesting. Washington's very obviously injured and hesitant to leave his wounded soldier by himself, but he persistently delves into the ship to look for survivors.

He returns a few minutes later with a person dressed in aqua. Agent Carolina or Tucker? Tucker, he decides- even with all her strength and under all the armor, Carolina still has the shape of a woman. This aqua soldier is bulky, lacking curves. Tucker.

No matter who they are, they’re left alongside Caboose. There’s an argument exchanged- Locus can tell through body language. Washington gestures sharply and the aqua soldier’s movements are defensive. Washington stamps his uninjured foot, gestures sharply with his hand, and whirls around. The aqua soldier slumps next to his fellow blue, looking defeated.

Groups eventually filter out- a collection of colorful simulation troopers. A maroon and a yellow ( orange? ) one exit the ship together, without Washington’s aide. Washington fetches a final one, dressed in bright red, and orders the whole lot of them to stay put. He heads back into the ship and scours, but after an hour he joins the sim troopers again, looking defeated. The whole group starts shifting and both Washington and the red sim trooper start barking orders to their subordinates, probably tallying injuries. 

“There’s something wrong.” Locus rumbles over their comms. 

“Are you kidding? We’ve got these losers right where we want them. Trapped in a shitty canyon. They’ve already shoved their necks in the noose, we just gotta give ‘em a push.” Felix snorts.

“That wasn’t the original plan.” Locus reminds.

“Who cares? This worked  _ even better  _ than that plan. Now we’ve got time to let ‘em settle, get all  _ relaxed,  _ before we spring this shit on ‘em. Give ‘em a month or two down there, they’ll get lulled into a false sense of security, they’ll  _ trust  _ me-” 

“We’re missing a few.” Locus cuts him off.

“What? No. They’re all there. Three blues, three reds, isn’t that how it’s supposed to be?” 

“There should be ten of them.” 

Felix lets out a little hum, starting to count. “Simmons, Grif, Sarge, Caboose, Tucker, Washington, Carolina-” 

There’s an abrupt curse. “Carolina’s not down there, is she still aboard the ship? Did she leave?” 

“I didn’t see her leave,” Locus grates. 

“Maybe we got lucky and she fucking died. Good riddance.” 

“I don’t think so. Freelancers are hardier than that.” Locus shakes his head, although it’s not as though Felix can see it. “At any rate, there are more than those five sim troopers and the two Freelancers.” 

“The AI, you mean? It’s probably with Carolina. Maybe it got crushed under that ship, too.” Felix replies nastily. 

“No,” Locus’ patience is starting to wear thin. “There should be at least two more. The Red team had five members.” 

“Five?” Felix echoes. “Who are we missing?” 

“The pink one. The brown one. There’s a purple one I haven’t seen, either.” 

“You think they’re gonna be a problem?” He can practically hear Felix’s eyes narrow.

“I’m going to call Control.” Locus says, decisively. “Give them the report on the crash.”

“Let me do a little recon first. See who’s hurt or whatever.” In a mumble probably half to himself, he says, “Thank fuck they’re color-coded.” 

There’s a beat of silence. “Red one’s propped up on his shotgun. Holding his ribs. I’m gonna go with  _ broken.  _ Maroon’s helping him out and- Oh, shit, he just got whacked with the shotgun, ha-” 

“Felix,” Locus snaps. 

“Fine. Maroon one looks a little wobbly, maybe a concussion? Fat yellow one doesn’t look like he’s hurt, probably all that extra padding.” Felix mutters, with all the churlishness of a kid with his favorite toy taken away. Locus has very little patience for his childishness, but tolerates it for now. “Blue one’s lying down. He’s breathing, so he’s not dead. The aqua- cyan? What color is that?- one’s got his arm in a sling… Washington’s hobbling but still moving around. One of his legs is busted, I think.” 

“No sight of Carolina or the other Reds?” 

“Nope. Think they’re dead?” Felix asks again.

“No. I need to talk to Control. You’re going to help me make the report.” Locus makes it clear that it’s not a choice. 

“I fucking hate talking to them.” Felix complains. “Fine. What-the-fuck-ever, Locus.” 

=

FOUR OF THEM ARE MISSING, YOU SAY? 

“That’s right,” Felix sighs. “Locus says it’s the pink one, the brown one, the purple one, and Carolina.” 

INTERESTING. CAROLINA IS MISSING?

“Is she a primary concern?” Locus asks.

YES. FELIX, TRACKING HER WILL BE YOUR RESPONSIBILITY IN ADDITION TO WATCHING THE SIM TROOPERS AND WASHINGTON.

“Wait, I have to do  _ both?”  _ Felix says, voice growing hot. “What’s Locus going to be doing?” 

THERE IS A COMPLICATION I WANT HIM TO INVESTIGATE. AS YOU HAVE SAID, NOT EVERY SIMULATION TROOPER WAS ON THAT SHIP.

“What do you want me to do?” Locus asks. 

TAKE A SHIP AND GO TO OUTPOST 17-A. 

“Wait a minute, wait a minute. _ ”  _ Felix bursts out before Locus can get in a word. “You want to leave me to juggle idiot sim troopers and track a Freelancer in the boondocks while  _ he  _ gets to run off into space-” 

IT IS PIVOTAL THAT YOU REMAIN HERE, FELIX. I NEED SOMEONE CAPABLE TO KEEP AN EYE ON THE SIM TROOPERS. LOCUS, THERE IS A SHIP WAITING FOR YOU AT THESE INDICATED COORDINATES. 

“Understood,” Locus replies gravely. 

YOU UNDERSTAND YOUR PURPOSES, GENTLEMEN?

“Yes,” Locus says immediately. It takes Felix a second, but he gives a jerky nod. 

The transmission ends. 

The very second it disappears, Felix whirls around to face him with a loud, indignant “What the fuck!?” 

“What?” Locus says flatly.

“You get to go star-hopping- you’re getting to go on a fucking vacation- while  _ I’m  _ stuck in an active war zone in the ass end of nowhere! This is bullshit.” 

“Life isn’t fair.” Locus replies primly. Felix snarls, evidently not happy with the answer.

“What about  _ your _ responsibilities? To the Feds? How the hell am I s’posed to keep the Rebels off the Feds if you’re not here?” 

“You’re smart.” Debatable, but it’ll shut Felix up. “Figure it out.” 

“I fucking  _ hate  _ you sometimes, Locus.” 

“I need to go. Keep me posted on the sim troopers and the Rebels.” 

“Will do,” Felix replies, sour enough for Locus to think he’s being disingenuous.

“Don’t be bitter.” Locus advises. Felix hisses something unpleasant and probably explicit under his breath and stomps back towards the canyon. 

Locus watches him go, then inputs Command’s coordinates into his HUD. 

He has a long walk ahead of him, and God knew what when he reached this Outpost.

 


	2. Valhalla

The trip is not, necessarily, that bad. The flight is smooth, the pilot subservient, and it takes less than a day. Chalk it up to human ingenuity to be able to traverse the galaxy in a matter of hours instead of the eons nature intended.    
  
Outpost 17-A is an inlet, a small canyon that has a vast lake lapping at its shoreline. Two bases stand parallel to one another, the terrain jaggedly shaped by mounds of earth and stone, split by a winding river. A waterfall gushes into the canyon, bringing snowmelt from mountains high above; the creator of the aforementioned river and a surprisingly beautiful, welcome landmark. The abundance of green is... nice. It is cool out, no more than seventy degrees, with a pleasant breeze that made the pine trees shuffle and groan. The place smells earthy and wet, although it isn’t an altogether unpleasant scent. The bases stand high, made of grey metal and concrete. They look like medieval castles amongst this cool, green, forested landscape- he’s reminded of stories of knightly valor when looking upon the metal structures.

Not all that long ago the bases had been home to the simulation troopers. Conflicts had been fought here- people had supposedly died here, although rumors of the deaths were purportedly exaggerated- but it isn’t battle-scarred. It is a nice place. A contrast to the hell that Chorus had been.   
  
It is a welcome reprieve. Not that he would tell Felix that.

Nestled up to the right- when one was standing on the shore- is some manner of… Home. It’d been made from what looks like a combination of rock that’d been bored into and small slats of wood, undoubtedly cut from the pines nearby. The roof is thatched, made of straw or some similar material. There is a picket fence encircling a large patch of what appeared to be vegetables; corn, squash, melons, cabbage, a multitude of other green growing things just starting to sprout. Dead in the center was a grisly scene that makes Locus twitch; someone had been crucified and left to dry out in the vegetable patch. 

They are dressed in a parody of a farmer’s outfit; a wide-brimmed straw hat, a pair of overalls. Closer inspection proves that this person isn’t entirely a  _ person-  _ nor were they an empty suit of Mjolnir armor. Robotic gore- wire and delicate metallic bits that glint in the sunlight- pokes out of the armor, alongside thick bunches of straw that’d been carelessly stuffed inside. A handpainted sign is hung on the robot’s cross- NO BIRDS, it reads. 

He wonders what the robot had done to deserve such a fate. 

But it answered one question: Where the brown simulation trooper had gone. He could safely tell Control that Lopez was dead, or at least, not operable at the present moment. 

Pink and purple remained to be found. 

He quietly leaves his perch on the rim of the canyon, being slow and careful during his descent. A sound picks up- something crackly and faint, like a bad radio. It smooths out from the burst of static into a song; an upbeat melody carried by drums and piano. It appears to be emanating from the hut, or nearby it. 

Locus creeps invisibly forward, edging past the picket fences. 

There's a soft whirr from the center of the vegetable garden, and he promptly freezes as still as he can. The scarecrow doesn't move- it can't, what with how it's been disassembled- but it was the producer of the sound. 

A flat, monotone voice says:  _ "Que?" _

Spanish. That's right, the robot was Spanish. It takes a second for him to click from English to his second tongue.

_ "What was that?" _ The scarecrow wonders aloud. 

Locus holds as still as he physically can, but that's not enough up against a robot with sophisticated motion tracking technology.

_ "I can see you," _ Lopez drones.  _ "Please kill the pink one. Then the purple one. Or at the same time. I don't care." _

Locus gives no indication of hearing. 

_ "Kill. The. Pink. One." _ Lopez enunciates carefully.  _ "Piiiiink. Kill." _

"Quiet," He orders softly, in English. 

_ "Of course," _ Lopez mutters.  _ "Of course." _

The robot falls silent, and Locus wonders what he can use to threaten someone who has already been dismembered and decapitated.

“Where are the others?” Locus asks.

“ _ I don’t know,”  _ Lopez drawls. “ _ They might be on the moon. Have you tried there yet?”  _

“Where are they?” He repeats. 

“ _ They nailed me to a fucking cross, it’s not like I can look around and check.”  _ Lopez says impatiently. “ _ Maybe they crawled under a rock and died.”  _

“You’re not helping.” 

“ _ Have you checked the pantry?”  _ Lopez snarks. 

“ _ Listen to me,”  _ Locus drops the pretense that he’s monolingual and snarls in Spanish, “ _ Where are the two of them?”  _

_ “HOLY SHIT YOU’RE BILINGUAL.”  _

_ “Where are they!?”  _

_ “DON’T KILL ME OH MY GOD THEY’RE PROBABLY EITHER IN THE HOUSE OR ON THE BEACH.”  _

_ “Thank you.”  _

He didn’t know robots could whimper with fear. Nice to know. 


	3. Investigation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus attempts to get a sense of who these three sim troopers are.

The house will be the first matter of investigation- he’d seen the shoreline on his way in, and hadn’t seen anyone, armored or unarmored. He’ll need to be cautious, though- underestimating sim troopers was what got the Meta killed. 

These three had the least files out of anyone. He knew their names- Lopez, Franklin Delano Donut, Frank DuFresne- and their ranks. Lopez had no official rank, being a robot; Delano was still a private, and Frank DuFresne was officially listed as a Medical Officer Super Private, First Class. ( Whatever that meant? No one else had a rank like that anywhere in the military. Locus was pretty sure it’d been made up, but it was what was on his  _ official  _ record. )

His files have sparse more information. Delano came from Iowa, from Earth. DuFresne graduated from Jamaica State, failed the MCAT, but had been taking remedial classes in the time between leaving Blood Gulch and the Reds and Blues occupying Valhalla. He has no idea about their temperaments or strengths or potential weaknesses; the two of them had been strictly out of the limelight in the entire Blood Gulch Chronicles and the Recollection in favor of the other Reds and Blues.

He creeps up to the house, stealth unit still active.

The home is a singular room; there’s a large bed in a corner, piled with a multitude of pillows and blankets, neatly made. A raggedy teddy bear sits atop the pillows, kingly in its reign over the bedding material. 

The walls are painted a very light shade of pink, dappled with chick-yellow and plum-colored swirls of paint that resemble flowers or hearts or simple geometric shapes. There’s a nightstand, hand-made judging by its crudeness, bearing a small case and a book, colored pink and decorated with flowers. A mug full of pens, pencils, and markers rests aside the two objects.

Locus creeps forward warily. He opens the case, not entirely certain what to expect, but inside is only a pair of slightly smudged glasses. He shuts the case, leaves it as it was. He opens the book and attempts to decipher the first page. It looks like chicken scratch to him, comprised of swooping artistic letters that look more like a series of loop-de-loops than actual writing. For all he knows, it’s not even in English. 

He shuts the book, feeling disgruntled. The pens in the cup hold no interest, and he leaves them be. If he can’t find his quarries, he’ll take the book and Lopez’ head and deliver them to Control for further analysis. 

The room holds a wastebasket, carefully weaved from thin strips of wood. Either DuFresne or Delano appears to have some rudimentary survival skills: thus far he’s seen basket weaving, shelter building, farming…

A wooden shelf in the corner catches his eye and he prowls towards it. Clay jars- misshapen, roughly made- sit on the lowermost couple of shelves. Handmade, judging from the imperfections, most of which look like fingerprint dents. Peering in closer reveals they’re full of dried herbs and salt and honey; it appears that they’re living completely off the land. He didn’t see an apiary on his way in, but he wouldn’t know what to look for. Chorus definitely doesn’t have bees and it’s been a long time since he was out of either Chorus, a military mission, or a city. 

Some of the plants in that garden have to be wheat, because one of the largest of the pots is full of flour. It’s been a long time since he’s seen ingredients as fresh as this; even the Feds have difficulty farming, and the majority of their supplies ( and food ) was pre-war.  

In the corner to the right, there’s a clay fireplace. An oven? A kiln? A furnace? When he draws closer he can smell ashes. That, at least, he’s used to. 

Possibly to combat this ashy smell, the rest of the room smells sweet and floral. It takes him a moment to identify where the scent is coming from, exactly, but there’s a inward-facing windowsill bearing some blooming pink and purple flowers. They’re the culprit, no doubt.

The final item in the room isn’t handmade, like everything else. It’s a storage crate, UNSC standard. He pops it open and finds a multitude of clothes; most in shades of blue, purple, pink, and red. He sifts through them with care, but he turns up nothing in his search and quietly closes the crate. 

A radio sits by the windowsill, playing a mindless, upbeat pop tune. The source of the song he’d heard outside, before talking to Lopez. 

Nothing of use here. He’d need to do a more formal sweep after he located Delano and DuFresne, but for now, he had exhausted the supply of information a home could give him. 

A few stray observations: There was a singular bed and no other room. Either only one of them slept here, or they shared a bed. A possible romantic connection? Done from sheer practicality? A coping mechanism neither of them minded? It suggested intimacy, familiarity. A weakness to exploit? A lover could be the weak link in the chain…

Best not to assume. 

Locus creeps out of the house and checks the shore, as Lopez told him to.

He is not disappointed by what he finds- two men, that he presumes are Delano and DuFresne, splashing around by the water’s edge. 

The taller of the two has dark skin and jet-black hair, cropped close to his head. He isn’t wearing armor, which strikes Locus as absurd. They’re out in the open, with prime sniper territory; had they even looked to the canyon’s cliffs to see if there was any danger? 

Instead of armor, the darker-skinned of the two men wears a long white T-shirt that drapes down to the middle of his thighs and purple shorts that extend to the knee. Even through the bagginess of the shirt, Locus can tell he’s thin and not extensively muscled. He’s lean, wiry. Not a physical threat, he didn’t think. Although there’s a distinct curvature of muscle to his thighs and calves; a former runner? A current runner? Locus is fast but he’s not outrunnable. That’s something to make note of. He'll have to cripple the legs. 

The other one is interesting. He has a heart-shaped face and curls of bleached-blond hair; lighter skin than his companion, but still not plainly Caucasian. He’s shirtless- skinny in a classically handsome, modelesque way that suggested exercise just to keep that particular physique. Impressively muscled biceps and shoulders. Possibly a physical threat if it came to hand to hand, although he’s smaller than Locus by several inches and likely not as extensively trained. 

He tilts his head just so when talking to his companion and Locus gets a glimpse of his injury.

A spiderweb of scars extends from the side of his head; old wound. Had to be years since the injury was inflicted, but that doesn’t make it any less grievous. The shell of his ear is entirely missing, replaced with thick scar tissue. He likely can’t hear out of that ear; as for his eye, it’s a thin slit amidst the wrinkled texture of his damaged face. Either blind in it or damaged sight. If Locus is going to attack, he’ll have to attack from his right. 

They’re talking but he can’t hear what they’re saying.

He draws closer.

 


	4. Observation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Locus listens in on a conversation and makes one of his own.

“So, a couple UNSC guys came by this morning.” The blonde says conversationally. 

“Really?” The taller replies. “What happened?” 

“Well, I asked them in for a drink, right? But it turns out I can’t take more than three guys! We didn’t have enough teacups.” 

“We could make some more,” The taller hums sagely. 

“Well, they weren’t interested in drinks, anyway. They asked me what we were still doing here, ‘cos apparently the other guys left-” 

“Left? That was, like…” He squints. “A week ago?” 

“A few days?” The blond suggests. 

“I don’t remember. We’ll need to check the calendar, Donut.” 

Ahhh. If the shorter blonde was Donut, the taller must be DuFresne. That gave him names to put to the faces, at least. 

“Anyway,” DuFresne continues, “What’d they say to you?” 

“Not much. Just how all the guys left, I think they were heading back to Earth?” 

Locus tenses. 

“Were they?” DuFresne says. “Do you want to go back?” 

Delano considers that for a minute, then shakes his head. “Nope.” 

“Don’t you have any family?” 

“None worth going back to,” Delano’s voice is forcedly cheerful. “You?” 

“Nah.” DuFresne says. He kicks at the sand near the water’s edge. “To be honest? When you all left without me to go kill the Director, I thought I was gonna have to live here by myself. And you know? I think I was okay with that.” 

“I came!” Delano objects. 

“Yeah,” DuFresne replies wistfully. “But nobody else did.” 

The two stare out at the water. 

“In hindsight, I guess I wasn’t really  _ trapped  _ here. I could’ve called somebody. The long-range radios work, I could’ve just called the UNSC if none of you came back.” 

The radios work, do they? Locus’ eyes sweep across the two bases. He’ll have to disable them; there’s no doubt in his mind that this will be one of the first places the sim troopers try to call when they get their bearings on Chorus. 

“We could still do that, I guess.” Delano says. “In case we ever get bored.” 

“Nahh… It’s been nice here, y’know? I got a buddy to practice yoga and go jogging with, somebody who knows a bunch about farming and swimming and-” 

“Awww,  _ stop.”  _ Delano giggles. That’s weird. Locus didn’t hear anything for him to giggle over. 

“It’s true!” DuFresne insists.

“Well, thanks to you, I have  _ tons  _ of stamina! And I’m  _ waayyy  _ more flexible than I used to be!” 

“It’s all about proper breathing, adequate preparation, and plenty of stretching!” DuFresne replies, nodding brightly. 

The medic finally takes a step into the water, splashing forward until he’s in past his waist. Delano isn’t far behind. 

Now that they’re gone, Locus has time to consider his plan of action. First order of business: The radios will have to go. He could try cutting power to the bases… Except that’s too obvious. Perhaps simple thievery? Or something more dramatic, like complete destruction?

He leaves the two; they’ve started laughing and splashing one another, playing some kind of childish water game.

He feels pretty self-confident not chalking them up as being threatening. They’re stupid, stupid sim troopers, the same way the other Blood Gulch troopers had been described. They had no idea what  _ real  _ danger they were in, and although they were survivalists, a stupid survivalist didn’t last long. 

He’ll need to tell Control about this, too. That, first, then the radios. 

He passes by Lopez on his way out- he hears a monotone robotic whimper when he draws too near- and scrambles his way up to the top of the canyon. 

He walks for about a mile and sets up a perimeter, surveying the land for anyone or anything that could see him. Empty, bare cliffscape and a seemingly endless freshwater lake. Some strange animal- not an earth creature, but akin to a bird- swoops overhead, letting out a raucous squawk as it goes. It plunges straight into the lake and emerges with some sea creature in its talons, wheedling around and flapping like hell to make it back to land with its glistening wet feathers. 

Only life nearby, as far as he knows. He calls Control. 

LOCUS. DO YOU HAVE ANYTHING TO REPORT?

“The three troopers are here.” 

THAT’S GOOD TO KNOW. WE DON’T WANT ANYONE MISPLACED. 

“Lopez is currently inoperable. Not capable of movement.” 

YOUR DOING?

“The other two nailed him to a cross.” 

INTERESTING. 

“He’s a scarecrow now.” 

DID YOU GET A CHANCE TO OBSERVE THEM?

“Yes.” 

AND WHAT WERE YOUR OBSERVATIONS? 

“They seem sane. Capable of survival. They were making mugs out of clay, furniture out of pine wood, harvesting their own food, raising their own bees.” 

OUR RECORDS INDICATE THAT FRANKLIN DELANO DONUT ONCE LIVED ON A FARM. 

“There was one other thing. I overheard them talking- their long range radio towers are operable.” 

DESTROY THE RADIO TOWERS. 

“Of course. And a for the three simulation troopers?” 

THESE THREE ARE BY FAR THE MOST HARMLESS OF THE ENTIRE LOT. DO NOT BOTHER EXPENDING THE ENERGY TO MURDER THEM. DISABLE THEIR COMMUNICATIONS AS PERMANENTLY AND SILENTLY AS YOU CAN, THEN REPORT BACK TO CHORUS TO HELP FELIX WITH HIS MISSION.

“They also mentioned UNSC agents sniffing around.” 

EVEN MORE REASON TO NOT KILL THEM. HOW REGULARLY DO THEY VISIT? 

“I don’t know.” 

IF IT IS FREQUENTLY, WE’LL NEED TO BRING THESE SIMULATION TROOPERS SOMEWHERE THEY’LL CAUSE LESS HARM. CHORUS, PERHAPS.

“You want me to bring them to Chorus?” He repeats, trying to keep shock out of his voice. He had felt the same way when Control had told him and Locus to not kill the Freelancers or their sim trooper companions.  _ Why not just kill them? Hide the bodies in the garden, where the earth is already uneven and large enough to hold two graves?  _

DO NOT QUESTION ORDERS, LOCUS. 

“I apologize.” 

OBSERVE FOR TWO WEEKS. IF THESE AGENTS DO NOT RETURN, PERMANENTLY DISABLE THE COMMUNICATION TOWERS AND RETURN TO CHORUS SILENTLY. IF THE UNSC MEDDLES NEAR THERE WITHIN THAT TIME, I AM TRUSTING YOU TO THINK OF A COVERT WAY TO GET THESE THREE TO CHORUS. 

“Understood.” 

DO NOT FAIL ME, LOCUS. I HAVE ALREADY HAD TO PUT UP WITH INCOMPETENCE FROM FELIX. I AM NOT HAPPY WITH HIS PERFORMANCE AND I WOULD HATE TO BE UNHAPPY WITH YOURS AS WELL. 

“Understood,” He repeats. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely certain about writing either doc, donut, locus, or lopez- or hargrove, for that matter. I hope i'm doing them justice!


End file.
